


fragile little flame

by singsongsung



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-21 23:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11367732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singsongsung/pseuds/singsongsung
Summary: Washington is to Betty as L.A. is to an aspiring film actor, as Nashville is to a country singer. It’s the city of her dreams.-The last thing Jughead wants is to spend his 'gap' year, during which he's supposed to be trying to write his novel, travelling around making various pre-campaign stops and diplomatic visits. But: here he is.White House!AU, aka:On a scale of 1 to America, how free are you tonight? 'Cause I'd love to take you to dinner.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for this idea goes to @jeemyjamz on tumblr. 
> 
> Prepare yourself for wild inaccuracies about the functions of the American government! I (a) am not American, (b) have never been a political intern, (c) am aware that there are way more interns than I'm choosing to have in this fic, and (d) am 110% certain that a White House intern would never spend this much time in close contact with the first family, but let's just call creative license on all of it. 
> 
> Title is from Taylor Swift's "I Know Places."

_he loves to romance 'em, reckless abandon_  
 _holdin' me for ransom, upper echelon_  
 _he says to be cool, but, i don't know how yet_  
 _wind in my hair, hand on the back of my neck_  
 _i said: can we party later on?_  
 _he said: yes_  
\- lana del rey, "national anthem"

 

Walking out of Dulles Airport, Betty Cooper feels like a girl arriving in New York City at the beginning of a musical. Backpack on her shoulders, pulling her wheeled suitcase behind her, she’s alert to everything around her, eyes burning bright. Washington is to Betty as L.A. is to an aspiring film actor, as Nashville is to a country singer. It’s the city of her dreams. 

She’s four months out of college, her honours Government degree from Cornell framed in the bedroom of her childhood home. And now she’s here, exactly where she’s always wanted to be. She can still remember being eleven years old and telling her parents she wanted to be president one day, and she remembers how they’d laughed and her mother had said, “Oh, honey, Washington would eat you alive.” 

Her sister was the only one who noticed how hurt she’d been, and late that night Polly snuck into her room and whispered, _you know, most parents_ want _their kids to be president._ But for the Coopers, it became something of a running joke. When Betty became president of her high school class, when she declared her intention to study political science, when she graduated a year early with her Goverment degree - they’d say _oh, Betty’s at it again._

But she did it, and she got this internship, without the support of her parents, who are still stuck on the idea that she’d make a great elementary school teacher. Admittedly, as she’s grown older, the idea of actually running the country has lost some of its appeal, but Betty still has her political aspirations. She’s going to be a White House intern, and she’s going to work as hard as she possibly can. She’ll do whatever grunt work is thrown at her, she’ll network like crazy, and she will open every door there is, no matter how hard she has to push. 

She boards the express bus to the subway, still wearing her stupid grin. She’s here, and she’s going to change something - even if she’s not quite sure what yet. 

 

 

When Betty arrives at the apartment building she’ll be living in for the next four months, along with numerous other interns, the roommate the application process has assigned her is already there, sipping an iced coffee at the table with her computer open in front of her. 

“Hi,” she says, getting to her feet. “You must be Elizabeth.” 

The girl standing across from her is beautiful, with dark hair and eyes and an aura of confidence. Palms starting to sweat, Betty feels intimidated, like she always does when she meets girls like this, girls who were clearly popular in high school and who are capable of applying winged eyeliner flawlessly.

She wipes her hand quickly on her jeans and then holds it out for a handshake. “Yes, hi.” 

“Veronica Lodge.” 

Betty smiles her most polite smile. “Nice to meet you.” 

“You too,” Veronica says, and then turns slightly to point. “I took that room, but if it’s the one you want, too, we can draw straws or something.” 

“No, I’m sure it’s fine,” Betty says, rolling her suitcase into the unoccupied bedroom. Once inside it, she realizes the other room probably has a nicer view out its window, but that doesn’t matter - it’s not why she’s here. She takes her backpack off and breathes a sigh of relief, kneading her fingers into her sore shoulders. 

Veronica has followed her, lips wrapped around the straw poking out of her coffee. “So where’d they put you?” 

“Where’d they - oh, what department? Presidential Advance.” 

“Damn,” Veronica says, lifting her eyebrows, which, Betty notices, are perfectly shaped and filled. “You’ll be busy.” 

Betty smiles again, a little more easily this time; that’s what she’s hoping for. “What about you?” 

“First Gentleman’s Office,” Veronica sighs. “William’s close friends with my dad.” 

Betty freezes, staring at her new roommate. “Your father’s… close friends with the President’s husband?” she asks slowly. 

“I know.” Veronica rolls her eyes. “So embarrassing. But Daddy insists this will be good for me. Public service and all that, you know?” 

“Right,” Betty says, feeling sort of stunned. 

“Anyway, I guess I should let you unpack.” Veronica seems to study Betty for a moment, and then says, “Do you want to get dinner tonight? We could walk around and find somewhere. It would let us get to know our new neighbourhood a little more.” 

“Yeah.” Betty’s a bit taken aback by the offer, but she appreciates it. “Yeah, that sounds really nice.” 

Veronica flounces off and Betty sits down on her mattress, digging her phone out of her backpack. She opens her messages with her sister and types _you will not believe who my roommate KNOWS PERSONALLY_. 

 

 

Dinner is more enjoyable than Betty thought it would be. Their conversation flows easily, and Veronica tells Betty all about herself: she’s from Manhattan, the only child of wealthy parents. She got her degree in Cinema Studies at Tisch. She has a boyfriend back home named Reggie, and they’ve agreed to ‘relax their commitment’ slightly while she’s away - Betty has no idea what that means, but nods along anyway. Veronica speaks Portuguese and a fair amount of German thanks to a semester abroad in high school. She believes you should find a signature shade of lipstick and stick to it, she has strong opinions on nearly every beverage you can get at Starbucks, and she has no idea what she wants to do with her future. 

“You’re not interested in politics?” Betty asks, setting her taco down and dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. 

Veronica snorts. “No. Hard no.”

“So you’re only here because your father wants you to be?”

“Pretty much. I really don’t know what I want to do.” 

“Not something in film?” 

“I’ve considered going back and getting my Master’s,” Veronica says, sipping her margartia. “But Jughead’s been throwing that idea around too, and I’ve already put up with that kid for four years of undergrad.” 

“Jughead?” Betty asks. 

“Oh, sorry. I guess you know him as Forsythe.” 

Betty stills, the tortilla chip in her hand halfway toward the guacamole. “Like, Johansson’s son, that Forsythe?” 

“The one and only.” Veronica nudges the guac toward her. 

Betty dips her chip but doesn’t eat it. “Why do you call him Jughead?”

With a shrug, Veronica says, “The nickname predates our acquaintance.” 

“How long have you known each other?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. A while.” Veronica tilts her head in thought. “Since we were eleven or twelve.” She rolls her eyes at a memory. “ _God_ , he was annoying. I mean, he still is, but he was such a broody tween.” 

From the little she knows about the eldest child of the First Family, Betty can picture it. She doesn’t think she’s ever actually seen a smile on his face in a photograph. 

“I’m sure you’ll meet him,” Veronica continues. “Considering your department. I know Susannah’s been talking about bringing him on some trips.” 

Betty blinks when Veronica calls the president by her first name. Veronica is so _close_ to this world, already so immersed in it, whereas Betty is still completely on the outside. The craziest thing is that it’s clear that all of this is entirely normal to Veronica, while the idea of merely being in the same room as Susannah Johansson (America's first female president and champion of almost all of Betty’s ideals) is enough to make Betty’s ears heat up. 

“You must know Thea too, then, right?” 

Veronica nods, leaning back in her chair, margarita in hand. “You might not see a ton of her. Her school year must start any day now.” 

“Does she have an interesting nickname?” Betty asks, and she means it as a joke, but Veronica nods. 

“Jellybean.” 

Betty considers it and then shrugs. “Better than Jughead.”

Veronica laughs, looking delighted. “You know, I probably would’ve been a total bitch to you in high school.” 

Helping herself to another tortilla chip, Betty nods and says, wryly, “Yeah. I know.” 

“So I’m glad we met now.” Veronica smiles. “I think we’re going to be really good friends, Elizabeth.” 

She dunks her chip in salsa and smiles back. “My really good friends call me Betty.”

 

 

Orientation is a total and complete whirlwind. It starts at eight o’clock in the morning, and Betty gently nudges a grumpy Veronica along through her morning routine, trying not to overstep any of the bounds of their brand-new friendship, but also really not wanting to be late. 

Betty’s chosen outfit for the day consists of her nice black pants, a white shirt, and a blue-and-white striped seersucker blazer. She was proud of the outfit when she chose it at home, but now, walking with Veronica, who’s wearing a knee-length dress with a perfectly pleated skirt, pearls around her neck, and three-inch heels, she feels underdressed. Betty just puts one foot in front of the other, though, making her way to the bus stop, because if there’s anything she’s good at, it’s powering through. 

When they arrive, the room is half-full of young adults, most of whom are hovering near the table where there are cups and coffee. Veronica makes a beeline for it as well, still wearing her oversized sunglasses and tugging Betty after her. 

Behind them in line is a tall guy with brown hair and a friendly face. “Kevin Keller,” he introduces himself, holding out a hand to Betty, “I’m - ”

“Gay,” Veronica says, putting her hand in his before Betty can even move. “Thank god. Let’s be best friends.” 

With a vaguely amused expression on his face, he tilts his head in Betty’s direction. “What about blondie over here?”

“I can have multiple besties,” Veronica says easily. 

Mildly embarrassed, Betty holds her hand out to Kevin. “Elizabeth Cooper. Hi. This is Veronica Lodge. We’re roommates.” 

“Good to meet you both,” he says, pouring himself a cup of coffee. 

They sit down in one of the rows of chairs, and a moment later a girl wanders over to them. Like Veronica, she’s wearing heels and has a pair of large sunglasses pushed up atop her head, and exudes style and confidence. “Mind if I sit?” she asks. 

Veronica looks up at her and Betty can literally _see_ the two of them recognize each other as equals. “Sure,” Veronica says, moving her purse from the chair at her right. 

The girl sits down and introduces herself: “Josie McCoy.”

There’s just enough time for the three of them to introduce themselves, and then a somewhat flustered-looking man takes his place behind the podium at the front of the room and begins to inundate them with information. Betty grabs a small notebook from her purse and begins to scribble down everything that seems important. 

 

 

The day is long. Betty travels home with Veronica in silence, aside from Veronica’s occasional complaints about her sore feet. Betty can sympathize - she’s been so alert all day, so eager to absorb every bit of information, and now her neck hurts a little and there’s a dull ache behind her eyes. 

Around their necks are brand-new badges on lanyards. Veronica’s picture turned out much better than Betty’s did, but she doesn’t really care. Wearing it makes her feel professional, official. It makes everything feel real. 

Back at the apartment, they order a pizza and eat a couple slices each. The leftovers go in the fridge, and they retreat to their rooms, mumbling goodnights. 

 

 

For her first official day, Betty is supposed to report directly to her boss at the White House, which she’s more nervous about than she’d like to admit. Veronica’s also headed there, which would be a relief if not for the fact that Veronica treats going to the White House like she’s going to Whole Foods. 

Despite her exhaustion, Betty gets up extra early, showers, drinks a green smoothie, and puts serious effort into her no-makeup-makeup look. She wants to wear her nice pants again, but the day is already warm and there’s a heat warning in effect, so she opts for a dress and picks a blazer to pair with it, creating coverage to balance the exposed skin of her calves. 

“Should I wear pantyhose?” she asks Veronica, nervous. 

“Hell, no,” Veronica says. “What are you, twenty-two?”

“Twenty-one, actually.” 

“Yeah, no. Now is the time to show those long legs off. Let’s go.” 

Betty follows her out into the sun, adjusting her bag on her shoulder and tugging at the neckline of her dress, despite the fact that its cut is conservative enough that there’s no chance of it slipping down to reveal her cleavage. 

“Wait, I thought you said you were done school,” Veronica says, putting her giant sunglasses on. “How are you only twenty-one?” 

“I finished a year early.” 

“Of course you did,” Veronica says on a sigh, but when she smiles over at Betty there’s nothing mocking about it - it’s a little amused but overall it’s just fond, and the sight of that smile, the ease and the warmth in it, is just what Betty needs in order to calm down and take a deep breath. 

 

 

Upon arrival, Veronica wishes Betty good luck and sweeps off to find the President’s husband like she’s been to his offices a thousand times before - though Betty’s _pretty_ sure it’s also Veronica’s first time actually getting to see the inner workings of the building.

Betty’s collected from where she’s standing amongst some other interns, feeling overwhelmed and probably looking it too, by her boss for the summer, who barely look up from her phone as she says, “Presidential Advance Intern? I’m Cheryl. Let’s walk.” 

Betty has to jog a little to keep up with her, despite the fact that Cheryl’s wearing heels and she’s not. Her boss has her phone in one hand, a folder tucked under her arm, and the most gorgeous red hair Betty’s ever seen. 

She leads Betty into a room with a large mahogany table at its centre, surrounded by chairs, in which about ten other people sit. 

“Alright, people, let’s get started,” Cheryl calls, and the quiet chatter in the room ceases. Betty stands near the doorway like a deer in headlights until one of the women at the table smiles at her and nods to a chair. 

Betty sinks into it, hurriedly getting her computer out of her bag. 

“Thinking about our future campaign efforts is priority one right now,” Cheryl says. “So when you pitch me yout ideas, they better align with a second term. Who’s taking notes? Oh - ” She glances at Betty. “This is our intern. Intern, can you take notes?” 

Betty nods. 

“Great,” Cheryl says, looking back at the rest of the group. “Peter. You’re first.”

The next two and half hours are spent discussing the pros and cons of future presidential destinations, both in the country and across the globe. Betty’s fingers shake a little while she takes notes on Peter’s propositions, but by the time they move on to the next speaker, she feels more confident. They’re talking about going to California, to Indiana; about visiting Saudi Arabia or France. 

Every new destination holds new potential for Betty: new experiences, new opportunities, maybe even new connections. She’s beginning to think the next four months might be the best time of her life. 

 

 

She arrives back at her apartment after eight in the evening, feeling just as exhausted as she had after orientation, her earlier invigoration completely gone. Her technical working hours, as outlined by her internship, are nine to six, but one day with Cheryl is enough to know that Betty will be leaving the office when Cheryl says she can. 

Kevin and Josie are over and an episode of _The Bachelor_ is on the TV, the volume turned down very low. 

“Uh oh,” Veronica says, watching as Betty sets her back down and kicks off her shoes. “Long day?” 

“My boss is…exacting.” 

“Come and sit. I’ll get you a plate,” Veronica says, hopping up. “We ordered Thai.” 

“Thanks,” Betty says, heading for the couch and collapsing next to Kevin. She’s going to have to make an effort to buy groceries soon and start cooking for herself - she can’t keep eating takeout while doing her unpaid internship. “How were your days?” she asks Kevin and Josie. 

Josie scrunches her nose. “Mine was alright. Not as busy as yours sounds like it was.” She sighs. “I just can’t wait to get this over with.” 

“Over with?” Betty asks, accepting a plate from Veronica and beginning to spoon some noodles onto it. 

“She hates it here,” Kevin tells her, like he’s confiding a secret. 

“My mom’s in municipal politics,” Josie informs Betty. “She has big dreams for my political future.” 

Betty smiles a little and guesses, “But you don’t.” 

“I’d much rather follow in my father’s footsteps, honestly.”

Still using his secretive tone, Kevin leans toward Betty and says, “Her dad is _Myles McCoy_.”

“Oh,” Betty says, her eyes widening a bit. “Wow.” 

Josie smiles. “Much more fun than mayoral elections, right?” 

“Much,” Veronica agrees. “Four months will fly by, though.” 

“Not too fast, hopefully. I do actually _want_ to be here,” Kevin says. 

Betty smiles over at him and says, before she puts a piece of tofu in her mouth, “Me, too.” 

 

 

On day two, Cheryl doesn’t come collect her, seeming to assume that after a single day spent mostly in one board room and an office, Betty must know her way around. She’d probably be able to find Cheryl’s office again, but her boss sent her an e-mail at six that morning requesting that Betty meet her in some other conference room - a room that Betty cannot, for the life of her, manage to find. 

Standing in a hallway, staring at the e-mail on her phone like it will give her guidance, she feels stupidly young and out of place. Everyone else is walking briskly, moving from Point A to Point B with purpose, probably changing the world somehow, and Betty’s just _standing_ there, waiting until someone from the Secret Service starts to find her suspicious. 

“Little lost?” 

Her head snaps up at the question and she finds herself looking at a guy around her age, dressed unlike anyone else she’s seen in these halls: ripped jeans, what looks like a band t-shirt, leather jacket. He looks like someone the Secret Service should find suspicious instantaneously, but Betty _is_ lost, and beggars can’t be choosers. 

“Yes,” she says with a small smile, taking a couple tentative steps toward him. “Very lost, actually.” 

“Where are you trying to go?” 

She holds out her phone to show him the e-mail. 

“Ah, okay, you’re not far. Backtrack, and turn right at the end of the hall. Head down there, it’s on the left.” 

“Thank you so much,” she says as he hands her phone back. 

One corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Hey, I live to serve.” 

When their eyes meet, she realizes, with a jolt, who he is. He’s Johansson’s son - she hadn’t recognized him, at first, without his photo-op outfits of suits or chinos and sweaters. Forsythe. Or, as Veronica had called him, Jughead. 

“You better get going...” His gaze slides down, over her neck and her chest until it reaches her badge. “Elizabeth Cooper. Politics wait for no woman.” 

“Of course.” She flushes. “Thank you so much, again. I’m so sorry to have bothered you.” 

“No bother,” he says, leaning a shoulder against the wall. When Betty doesn’t move after a beat, he lifts an eyebrow and gestures down the hall behind her. 

“Oh! Right. Going. Thank You. Again.” She gives him her most polite smile, hoping that conveys the extent of her gratitude, and turns on her heel, feeling flustered by all the turns her morning has taken. 

Toward the end of the hall, she glances back over her shoulder. Forsythe’s still there, still leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, and, she imagines, still wearing that indecipherable expression on his face. 

Still looking at her. 

 

 

tbc.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want a visual: in my head, Jughead's parents look like Elizabeth and Henry McCord from _Madam Secretary_.

The last thing Jughead wants is to spend his ‘gap’ year, during which he’s supposed to be trying to write his novel, travelling around making various pre-campaign stops and diplomatic visits. But: he is. 

Or, technically, he will be, in the very near future. 

He doesn’t actually know _why_ he’s in a room with his mother, his father, his mother’s chief of staff Lars, and Cheryl, his mother’s favourite strategist, along with a group of aides and assistants, listening to them debate visiting Nebraska with a surprising amount of passion. He’s the only one in the room eating the danishes on the table, and he’s the only one without an opinion. If they decide to go to Nebraska, then he’s going to Nebraska. 

That’s the crux of the matter, really. He will pack a bag and follow his mother to whatever destination she chooses, just like he showed up in this meeting room because she’d asked him to, just like he’d acquiesced when she looked at him with hopeful-but-prepared-to-be-disappointed eyes and suggested that he spend some time travelling with her as she figures out her campaign strategy for next year’s election. 

Jughead cannot say no to his mother, because she said yes to him. Years and years ago, after his birth parents were both arrested and relinquished custody to the state, when his little sister was a perfectly adorable, extremely adoptable three-month-old baby, and Jughead was a surly six-year-old, back when the social workers assumed he’d be their responsibility for the next twelve years, his mother and father came to meet sweet baby Jellybean, and when they learned about her silent, angry older brother, they said yes. _Yes, we want to adopt him, too._

He wasn’t a great senator’s son, and being the son of the POTUS is even tougher. He’s not like his sister - he had those six years in a trailer park. He can remember the rev of motorcycle engines, the sound of gunshots, his mother screaming, sirens wailing. Those memories are clustered inside of a him, a vicious cloud of darkness he’ll never be rid of, and they’re not exactly the makings of a picture-perfect son. He’ll never be good at this, but for his parents, he tries. He says yes to his mother. 

And that’s exactly how he’s found himself here, in this room, thinking idly about the outline for his novel that he just can’t get quite right. He’s faintly aware that his mother and Cheryl are arguing about something - Cheryl’s got the incredible quality of being impossible to intimidate, and he knows she’s one of his mother’s favourites for this very reason. 

His eyes wander past Cheryl’s perfectly composed face and land on her intern, the blonde who’d been lost in the hallways last week. She’s rubbing her lips together, watching Cheryl nervously. She’s had the luck of being thrown way more responsibility than an intern normally is, since Cheryl’s right-hand man, Marc, is currently off on paternity leave, and Cheryl stubbornly rejected all his proposed replacements. 

Jughead tries to regard the world through an aspiring author’s observational eyes, and he _thinks_ he remembers that the girl’s name is Elizabeth. She’s wearing a pink dress and a white sweater and looks like tiny damn birds dress her every morning. She looks so innocent and apple-pie and Midwestern that it almost hurts; she’s probably _from_ Nebraska. He doesn’t know how the hell she ended up here. 

A hand claps down lightly on his shoulder, startling him from his thoughts. He looks up to see his father standing on his right. 

“Meeting’s over, kid,” William says. There’s a small, knowing smile on his face. “You’re free for the rest of the day.” 

“Can’t wait to see what fun shenanigans me and my Secret Service friends get up to,” Jughead says dryly. 

“I’m sure CNN will keep your mother and I up to date,” William says. “We’re going to aim for dinner at seven, think you’ll be around?” 

“Should still be alive by then, yeah.” Jughead stands, stretching his arms out on either side of his body. “I’ll see you for dinner.” 

“Great,” William says, finally going to meet his assistant, who’s waiting anxiously by the door. 

Susannah and Lars are already gone, so he’s left in the room with Cheryl and Elizabeth, who are both putting things away in their bags. Cheryl checks the time on her phone and says, “Twenty minute lunch, intern - meet me back in my office.” 

She nods to him on her way out the door. “Forsythe.” She’s never once called him Jughead. 

He stays where he is, watching Elizabeth pull an apple out of her bag. “So,” he says, “we meet again.” 

She looks over at him like she’s startled that he’s speaking to her. “Yes, it… appears that we do.” 

“Seems like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other,” he says. 

Elizabeth nods. “Yes, I guess we will, if you’re going to be travelling with President Johansson.” 

“Yeah, I can’t wait to go to Nebraska,” he says dryly. 

She just _looks_ at him for a few seconds, an impressive number of expressions flitting over her face before something like nervousness settles over her features and she says, “We’re not… going to Nebraska. We’re going to Canada - Ottawa - and then to New York City.” 

“Oh.” He’d been zoned out for longer than he’d thought. “Well. You must be excited.” When she blinks at him, he clarifies, “About going to New York.” 

“Sure, I guess,” she says, her shoulders lifting and falling in a small shrug. “I was just there over the summer, but… it’s always nice.” 

“Where are you from?” 

“Upstate New York,” she says. That surprises him - so she’s not a Midwestern girl - and it must show on his face, because she asks, “Why, where did you think I was from?” 

“Honestly?” He smiles at her. “Nebraska.” 

That makes her laugh - it’s short and soft, sweet. “I feel like I should be insulted, but there’s nothing wrong with Nebraska.” 

“You’re just got that look about you,” he says with a shrug. 

She looks at her apple and he’s reminded that he’s eating into her short lunch break. “What look?” 

He can’t say _like you’ve never seen anything bad before, like you should be in Disney movie_ , so he goes with: “The idealistic one. Like if you just _care_ enough, you can solve the Israel-Palestine conflict.” 

Her smile flips, turning into a small frown. “I don’t think that.” 

“Of course you don’t, sweetheart,” he says, smirking. “I’ll let you eat your apple,” he adds. 

She all but gapes at him as he heads for the door, and the look on her face makes his smirk morph into a smile as he walks down the hall. 

He’s going to have fun with her. 

 

 

Jughead does make it to dinner with his family - he never really intended not to. Jellybean chatters away while the rest of them eat, discussing her week at school, her art classes, her current feud with a girl who never invites her to parties. Susannah, as always, does an impressive job of managing to listen enough to offer advice in all the right places while also checking her phone every five minutes or so. 

“It’s impossible to _do anything_ with two giant men following me around everywhere,” Jellybean says, giving their parents her best puppy dog eyes. 

“You should start a blog, JB,” Jughead says, smiling at her despite his sarcasm. “I bet people would love to know the harrowing struggles involved with being the president’s daughter.” 

“You don’t get it,” she says. “You were finished high school when Mom got elected.” 

“Jelly, you know it’s just a matter of keeping you safe,” William says. 

“You’re _stunting my social development_ , Dad.” She pouts, and then the real reason for this round of complaining emerges: “Can I _at least_ go to New York? Mom? Please?” 

“Not this trip, honey,” his mother says, her eyes skimming over a message before she sets her phone down again. “You shouldn’t miss your third week of school.” 

Jellybean makes a disgruntled noise, spearing a green bean aggressively with her fork. 

“How did I end up with one child desperate to go on trips and one desperate to get out of them?” Susannah asks with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. 

Jughead feels a stab of guilt. “I’m looking forward to the trip, Mom.” 

She gives him a look like _sure, kid_. “I understand that Canada isn’t exactly the most thrilling or exotic destination - ”

“He also gets to go to New York,” Jellybean mutters. 

“I love Canada,” Jughead says. “Love moose. Love snow.” 

Susannah can clearly still see through his bullshit, but she smiles at him anyway. “It’ll be great to have you there, hon.” 

 

 

Late in the evening, as he’s eating a piece of leftover pie and struggling to figure out an aspect of one of his characters’ backstories, his phone dings with a text from Veronica Lodge. 

He remembers, when he sees her name flash over his screen, that she’s here for the next few months, interning in his dad's office. He expects she’s asking him to hang out - as much as they dislike each other sometimes, they _are_ friends - but instead of her typical _hey, loser!_ greeting, he sees a text without preamble.

_u really pissed off my roommate. she called u a jerk and i think that’s the worst word in her vocab._

He sets his fork down, confused, and replies, _your roommate?_

_betty._

The only thing Jughead has to say to that is: _?_

_the pres advance intern, idiot. did u annoy so many ppl today u can’t keep track?_

He tries to imagine Cheryl’s wide-eyed intern rooming with the hurricane of snobbishness, expressive eyebrows, and wit that is Veronica Lodge. He thinks it would probably make for a decent sitcom. _it’s 2023 and she goes by betty?_ he writes back. 

_asshole,_ is her reply, followed by, _try not to be a dick while u guys are travelling together. at least try not to hit on her._

_no promises ronnie_ , he says, mostly because he knows it will annoy her - but also because he genuinely can’t guarantee that he won’t do either of those things. 

 

 

In Air Force One, heading north, Jughead drops down into the seat next to Elizabeth’s. 

She looks up from the absurdly large stack of papers on her lap and caps her highlighter. “Hello.” 

“Hey,” he returns easily. “Cheryl’s working you hard, huh?”

She glances over her shoulder, like her boss might materialize at any moment, despite the fact that Cheryl’s currently sitting with Lars, drinking bourbon. “I don’t mind,” she says. 

Jughead looks her over. She’s wearing a blazer today, and she’s got her hair pulled back into a very neat bun. He’s probably supposed to get the impression that she’s serious and professional, but instead he thinks: _she’s pretty._

“So,” he says, resting his left ankle on his right knee. “I hear you think I’m a jerk.” 

Blotches of pink appear on her cheeks. “ _What_?” she whispers, glancing around again like she’s worried someone might have heard him. 

He smiles at her reaction. “Veronica told me.” 

“Oh my god,” she says, looking entirely mortified. “I can’t believe Veronica - ”

“It’s okay. You’re not the first to think it, and you won’t be the last.” 

Her eyes skim over his face like he’s a complicated document she’s trying to parse. “I don’t think that’s really something to be proud of.”

“No,” he agrees, “Not really. But when you’re in the public eye, like my family is… you just have to let people make their judgments.” 

“But then why do you do it, too?” she asks, her words coming out quickly, like she can’t stop herself from saying them. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m not naïve. I just - I really admire your mother. I have… beliefs, and convictions. I want to try and do something impactful, but I know I can’t save the world.” She bites her lip, looking back down at her papers. “If you want, we - we can chalk it up to terrible first impressions. I’ll stop thinking you’re a jerk if you stop thinking I’m a Pollyanna.” 

Jughead absorbs her words, surprised by them and by her impulse to forgive so easily. After a beat, he teases, “But aren’t you though? Just a little bit?” 

She frowns. “No.” 

“C’mon. It’s the twenty-first century and you go by _Betty_.” 

She looks over at him, seeming momentarily shocked that he knows that, but she must make the mental connection to Veronica because the surprise melts off her face, leaving her expression resolute. “And you like to be called _Jughead_.” She looks back at her stack of documents with finality. “Glass houses, my friend.” 

He leans in closer to her, their arms almost but not quite touching. “We’re friends now?” 

“I’m working, Forsythe.” 

He laughs quietly, backing off. “I’ll leave you to it, then, sweetheart,” he says as he gets up. 

Betty looks up, her eyes sparkling with the heat of annoyance. “Don’t call me that.” 

Jughead raises his eyebrows at her, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging as he backs away. “Glass houses,” he says pointedly, and he takes one more second to enjoy the fire in her eyes before he retreats to his original seat. 

 

 

Canada’s Prime Minister is notoriously attractive. Looking at him, Jughead understands why this is, objectively, but it’s still incredibly weird to watch his mother get all smiley and Cheryl flip her hair. Betty doesn’t meet him directly, but even hanging back behind Cheryl, a pile of folders in her arms, she looks a little starry-eyed. 

Jughead falls back a bit closer to her. The PM’s kids are younger than him and still in school, so there’s no one for him to exchange awkwardly understanding nods with. 

“Got a little crush?” he asks. 

She scowls at him, but she goes a little pink. He’s discovered he likes making her blush. “Don’t you have better things to do besides bothering me?” 

“Nope,” he says easily. 

“Of course,” she says under her breath. 

He opens his mouth to reply, but she steps forward, brushing by him, and he realizes they’re on the move. 

 

 

They all eat dinner together in the evening, in a private room adjacent to the hotel’s restaurant, two stoic Secret Service agents posted by the door. 

His mother is engaged in what seems to be a fairly serious conversation about trade regulations with Cheryl, Lars, and a couple other aides, so Jughead ends up sitting at the other end of the table with his father and Betty, eating his fettuccine at record speed. 

“Have you been to Canada before, Elizabeth?” William asks, always an easy conversationalist. 

Betty looks somewhat terrified to be directly addressed. She’s barely eaten anything, and Jughead realizes abruptly that she’s probably very much out of her comfort zone. 

“Once,” she says, offering his father a picture-perfect smile that only shakes a little. “I went to Vancouver.” Her voice rises slightly at the end, like it’s a question. 

“Lovely city,” William says gamely, nodding. 

“Yes, sir,” Betty says, still wearing that same smile. She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something more and then snaps it shut again. 

Jughead decides to take pity on her. With a sigh, he sets down his fork and says, “Hey, Dad,” before launching into a spiel about how he thinks the sequel to a movie they both like is going to flop. 

While William responds, he looks meaningfully at Betty and then at her plate. _Eat something._

She catches on immediately and hastily picks up her fork, twirling it in her noodles. 

 

 

Once his parents retire, the room clears out fairly quickly, Lars leading a group of staffers out as they discuss tomorrow’s meetings. Cheryl remains, examining something on an iPad with the single remaining aide, so Betty stays too, poking at her slice of cheesecake but not really eating it. 

Jughead could head off to his own room, but he’s still got some beer left in his glass, and remaining here with Cheryl’s intern is probably about as exciting as whatever’s on Canadian TV at this moment. 

“You going to eat that, or just massacre it?” he asks after another moment of watching her dig her fork into her dessert but not actually take any bites. 

Her eyebrows lift slightly as she looks at him. “Do you want it?” 

“What a _friendly_ gesture,” he says with a grin, taking her plate and setting it down in front of him. 

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging the corners of her mouth upward. “Consider it a favour returned.” A bit more softly, she adds, “Thanks for buying me some time to eat.”

“I couldn’t exactly let you starve while following the POTUS around. That wouldn’t be great for the presidential image.” 

“Your parents are really nice,” she says. “Very… normal, all things considered.” 

He nods, shovelling some cheesecake into his mouth. “Impressively genuine for politicians, yeah.” 

Betty touches her hair like she needs to make sure her bun is still tidily in place. “Are you a bottomless pit?” she asks as he eats the last bite and scrapes his fork over the plate to collect any leftover bits of caramel sauce. 

“Hollow legs,” he says, winking at her.

Like he knew she would, she flushes and looks away, her gaze landing on Cheryl. “Do you, um… do you have any idea how long they’ll keep talking?” 

He rests his elbows on the table. “Why? Are you not enjoying my company, sweetheart?” 

Her head snaps back in his direction, and now she’s glowering. “ _Stop calling me that_ ,” she says. The volume of her voice is normal, but her anger is clear, and as soon as the words are out of her mouth she glances over at Connor and Mateo, Jughead’s usual Secret Service accompaniment, like she’s worried they’re going to arrest her or something.

Jughead likes her goody-two-shoes instinct to rein in her anger almost as much as he likes the flashes of heat in her green eyes. He wants to rile her up until her vexation breaks right through those good girl impulses and shatters them. 

Travelling with his mother is starting to seem a bit less like a chore. 

 

 

tbc.


End file.
